


cast no stones but for mountains

by themikeymonster



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abduction, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Captivity, Guide Tony Stark, Kidnapping, M/M, Psychic/Empathic Assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 15:20:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13251006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themikeymonster/pseuds/themikeymonster
Summary: Steve grimaces. "Stark's a Guide," he says."Howard?" James says, surprised - confused. He'd briefly met Howard before being permitted to bunk at the Fort. Howard had declared him stable enough for inclusion, but he'd definitely read like a mundane."The son. Tony," Steve corrects.





	1. Abduction

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Tony's captivity reads as real rapey, although no sexual assault actually occurs. Forced/Attempted Forced Bonding. Kind of Pack-ish dynamics; passel stands in for pack. A lot of awful things that happened to Bucky Barnes and Natasha, which are referenced but not actually described.

"- don't _worry,_ Pep, I will actually work on that. It's just a formality, that's all. I'll take a look around, go quietly out of my mind -"

"Oh, quietly, that's not -"

"- being around a bunch of over-stimulated ex-military yes-men -"

"I'll just tell Rhodey -"

"My honeybear is Air Force, that's different, Pep, and besides: you can't just tell on me, I'm - Rhodey's a mundane, you think he cares what I say about -"

"They still serve."

" _Pep._ Com'n. Give me a break. I told you I'll finish it while I'm -"

"No, you won't, Tony," Pepper sighs, still speaking over him without pause or effort. Tony is both surprised and delighted by this, which is probably why he's giving her such a hard time about this, delaying departure. He _also_ doesn't really want to leave, of course; the fact that Pepper Potts has finally gotten fed up enough with him that she's actually bickering with him is just incentive. Honestly, he'd been surprised she had persisted in formality as long as he has, but he's very proud she's given up on it now.

"I - I will, don't be rude, you're underestimating me - overestimating me -"

"I am precisely estimating you -"

"Estimates aren't usually precise, Pep, that's what -"

"Tony!" A large hand lands on Tony's shoulder, old, familiar, but Tony still flinches and bites back the 'don't touch me' that surges in his throat. Obadiah Stane's impression brushes up much too familiarly with his mind like a thick cloud of cologne. "Give the girl a break, would you? The chopper is waiting."

"Obie, we talked about this," Tony says; he has discretion, he can scold close friends or godfathers in public under his breath. His whole body feels off kilter under the weight of Obie's hand, like his entire right side might collapse. He feels like coughing, or choking, which is rude and won't even make a difference. Obie's hand squeezes his shoulder and Tony tries not to look at his PA, standing there with her AnthosTech tablet and radiating chill dislike. His head is starting to throb between the two of them.

"Thank you, Ms Potts, for reminding me of my deadlines," Tony says.

Pepper drops her gaze to the tablet and taps something on it before lifting her chin and meeting Tony's eyes. "You're very welcome, Mr. Stark. Will that be all?"

"That'll be all, Ms Potts, thank you."

Tony has barely finished saying so before Obie is pulling him through the door and into the whirling air outside. His fingers are a little too tight, but Tony hardly notices through the dizzying throb in his skull. He hates that his brain reacts like this to Obie; he swallows the nausea down as Obie guides him toward the waiting helicopter.

"Are you sure we can't get you a different PA?" Obie wonders over the noise, his graying brow wrinkled with a small frown. His face says concern, but the weight of his hand is irritation bordering on contempt. "One with a little more respect and less treating you like a child, maybe."

Tony wrangles back the instinctive desire to dip out from under his hand. It's not like Obie doesn't _know,_ they've talked about this. Tony's not - he's not violating anything, not if people are informed, but -

"I like Ms. Potts," he says bluntly. "How - How many other PAs even made it past the first month, Obie? She's been here a _year._ It's a work in progress, but there's no reason -"

"She's getting too familiar with you," Obie says, "She's an employee, not a friend, Tony."

"I know that," he says, too quick, too sharp. "You think I don't know that? I've figured out about _buying friends,_ Obie -"

Obie sighs and levels a reproachful look at Tony, not that he needs to use his face: it's ringing through his head like a chorus of bells beneath hammers. He feels his protests buckling on faulty foundation. An engineer like him should know better. Tony rubs his forehead, his head throbbing aching and tender and sore - still pounding under Obie's reproach, the fingers on his shoulders those hammers, Tony's own bones the bells. It's easier to let Obie drag him the rest of the way out to the helicopter.

"This is your bodyguard for this trip," Obie says, almost shouting to be heard as he pulls Tony toward the man standing by the door to the helicopter.

"What? Why?" Tony demands, squinting first at the stranger - a mundane, thank god, so at least Obie remembered that much. He turns, incidentally breaking Obie's hold on him as he glances around the launch pad. "Where's Happy? Why isn't - Happy should be here."

"He gets airsick, Tony," Obie says.

"Yes, but-"

"You can't expect an airsick bodyguard to do their job -"

"But he won't be guarding me in the _air,_ no one's going to attack me in the _air,_ bodyguards are for on the ground, Obie -"

"If you don't leave now, you'll be behind schedule!"

Obie's hands close on his shoulders again - both hands, both shoulders - and Tony sways under cloying weight of _Obadiah Stane._ He can do little else but accept the headset from Obie's guard and climb into the plane, settling roughly into the chair. Obie clasps his knee with a thin smile before stepping back and allowing the stranger to follow him and settle into his own seat. Tony buckles himself in firmly, trying to hide the  awful way his hands shake.

This is getting serious. Pepper isn't much of a projector in the first place, which was one of the reasons why he hired her as his next attempt at having a PA - she had plenty of opinions and thoughts of her own, he could sense that much, but she kept it under fairly good inate shields, for a mundane. Once she had come to the realization that her boss was an unbonded Guide, she'd actually gone out of her way to get better training, even though there really wasn't much mundanes could do for that kind of thing.

Not six months later, Tony is feeling the sharp, chill edges of her antipathy toward Obadiah Stane regardless. He keeps meaning to ask her why she hates Obie so much, but he keeps forgetting because she's so good at setting it aside most of the time. Or maybe it's less forgetting and more willful ignoring. He _likes_ Pepper, is the thing. She's beautiful and in control and doesn't take his shit even when he wishes she would. He practically feels human around her, which isn't something Tony can say about most people. Happy makes him feel human. Obie does, too.

He doesn't want to chose between them. He's hoping if he ignores it long enough, it'll resolve itself and he won't have to. It shouldn't be a question, given that he's known Obie since he could walk and he's only known Pepper for a year, and Obie is right that she's an employee and not his friend, but for god's sake, Obie is his dad's business partner and technically not a friend either, right?

If Tony weren't so allergic to _feelings,_ he'd try to ask one or both of them to talk it out or something, or maybe talk to them. Pepper, maybe. She is technically his employee, and he wouldn't ask her to _like_ Obie, just… not batter Tony's brains with her dislike of him. That's all. Besides, Tony had felt a lot of apprehension in that last impression Obie had slapped on his knee. Obie is always stressing out about Stark Industries. Tony's pretty convinced he and Howard are the reasons why Obie is going bald as it is.

Tony gives it a while, but when his throbbing headache refuses to abate, he digs around in his pockets until he comes up with a bottle filled with pills. PYM brand, of course. PYM Technologies had the market cornered as far as the Sentinel-Guide medical industry was concerned. Tony knows that Howard has studied their Sentinel-Guide safe medications, but the Pym family is smart, and their patents are pretty extensive. No one would be able to challenge their claim to the industry for some time.

Tony has been popping PYM brand guide suppressants for years. The numb, detached feeling they give him isn't entirely unlike being tipsy, without the side effect of making it impossible to keep his shields up. Not that his shields seem to be doing a lot as it is. He tosses two of the pills into his mouth and ends up looking around a bit helplessly. PYM has to be making the pills taste awful on purpose, but Tony has never let taste dissuade him from putting things in his mouth.

"Here," the bodyguard says, twisting a cap off a bottle of water and holding it out toward him.

"I don't like being handed things," Tony says, or tries to say while balancing a pair of large pills on his tongue. Honestly, he'd be willing to swallow _four_ of these if Pym ever got around to making them aspirin sized, and not antacid size. Or let him chew them like antacids.

The bodyguard arches a brow at him, but after a baffled second, screws the lid back on and puts the bottle on the floor between them. Tony eyeballs him.

"A loose bottle in the cab of a helicopter seems like a bad idea, soldier," he says mildly, bending and scooping it up. It was unlikely that their pilot would seen the helicopter careening anywhere, but between his headache and Obie's stress lingering in his shoulders and knee, Tony is feeling a bit overwrought.

An impression still lingers around the bottle - tension, expectation, things Tony is accustomed to feeling when strangers get around him. It's already wisping into nothing as Tony twists off the lid. He swallows the pills down along with half the bottle of water, and grimaces. The bitterness of the pills was familiar and vile, but something disgusting and oily seemed to coat the sides of his tongue and the corners of his teeth. Grimacing and scrubbing his tongue against his teeth, Tony peers at the label on the bottle.

"This is why I only drink Perrier," he mutters in distaste. He'd kind of like to chunk the bottle out a window, but - well, _littering,_ so he tucks it between his knees.

"What's the itinerary, Mr. Stark?" the guy asks.

That kind of thing should have already been handled, but - Tony allows for the chance that this guy has heard about how Tony never really sticks to someone else's plan if he can help it. "Just taking a look around," Tony says. "Fort Feelgood is Dad's most recent attempt at a sort of Sentinel-Guide rehabilitation center… cum 'supersoldier training center,' really. Finding Guides who need rehabilitation is a bit difficult, seeing as how Sentinels suffer trauma at a rate almost twenty-six times the rate that Guides do, so all Guides on-site are personnel."

"Right," he says. "Because there are fewer Guides."

"No, no, no, that's even taking population size into consideration, we're not _that_ imprecise, my god," Tony says. He makes an ambivalent gesture. "Yes, there are fewer Guides, but also Guides don't online thanks to trauma the way Sentinels do, and then the very nature of their training makes them exceptionally resistant to further trauma. Soldiers who online as Guides, for example, suffer PTSD less frequently than their mundane and Sentinel counterparts, and tend to recover quicker from pre-existing PTSD."

"You'd think that'd be the other way around, right?" the guy says. "Guides are supposed to be - like - psychic, or whatever. Constantly feeling what everyone else is feeling - I hear they don't like it much when people die around them, either."

Tony smiles thinly. While the official Stark Family response is 'no comment' on Tony's Guide status, they've never bothered addressing statements made by Sentinels or Guides that had come close enough to Tony to suss the truth out themselves. Most people just behave on the presumption that it's true, which is fine by Tony. He doesn't actually care, really, beyond what kind of laws get passed.

"Not my area of expertise," he says. "But think of it this way - almost all methods of onlining Sentinels requires an exceptional level of danger - the psychological stress of fearing for your life, or the lives of those around you. It's a defense mechanism. You see it even in mundanes, except they call it hyper vigilance. A Sentinel is basically experiencing an elevated response to traumatic stress _constantly._ Further stress will only exacerbate the problem, and with the enhanced physical ability that comes with active expression of the SG gene, the situation becomes incredibly dangerous."

Tony reaches up, rubbing at his face. It feels a bit funny, like he'd had a fan blowing into it too long despite the fact that the cab of the helicopter is sealed against the wind. His mouth feels a bit rubbery, too, and his tongue dry. It was a side effect of the PYM medication, but not one Tony had gotten before. The disconnected, almost dreamy feeling was to be expected, though. He runs his hand down his jaw and then the back of his neck.  It feels clammy.

"That's a pretty terrible system," his bodyguard says. "I've heard that Sentinels need Guides to be stable. If there are more Sentinels than Guides, then some portion of them are always going to be a danger."

"No, no, no," Tony says, trying not to bristle. "That's common anti-Sentinel rhetoric, and it's false." Assholes in Congress regularly like batting around the idea of mandated Sentinel-Guide bonding on similar justifications. Thankfully, the Sentient Rights Party regularly lobbied against any such regulations, frequently supported by the Center's funds. They had, once or twice, pulled 'taxation without representation' type press releases to turn public favor against any measure like that.

"Believe it or not, with the innovations that Stark Industries are constantly coming up with, Sentinels can live perfectly fulfilling lives without entering into a Sentinel-Guide relationship," he continues. "Hell, even without them, it can still happen, provided the Sentinel in question has the support of their community. The community is the best place for people with active SG genes, actually."

Well, for Sentinels anyway. It's not a great place for unbonded Guides, as Tony has discovered. Untethered psychic powers are great for figuring out if you're hallucinating or not - having a flashback or not - but they're pretty awful for day-to-day living. It's gotten to the point where Tony has literally asked the people around him not to touch him; even as mundanes, they echo and crash through his head.

His head is still echoing and crashing as it is, even after taking the pills. Tony pulls out the bottle again and checks the label even though he already knows it's the right brand, the right dosage. He has the exact taste of it memorized - had tasted the difference a few years ago when they changed the formulation to work better. They tasted exactly the way they're supposed to taste, and the bottle only feels of his own impression.

Why, Tony wonders dizzily, is he thinking about the possibility someone tampered with his meds? He's not actually this paranoid. Rhodey and Pepper _hate_ how little self preservation he regularly displays.

The bottle of water tumbles loose from between his knees. Tony stares at it as it hits the helicopter floor, sunlight catching on the water still in it, refracting, flashing, and then rolling toward the side of the helicopter. Across from him, his bodyguard unbuckles from his seat, then pulls out the handgun at his side. A hand bobs into Tony's view. It's his hand. It's palm out. He wants to say that the gun isn't necessary, but the man turns, and the pilot is turning, and then a loud bark of noise and the pilot is falling and -

Oh.

Darkness.

-0-

It's incorrect to say that the Fort has gone into disarray, but it's not like anyone's relaxed about getting a personal visit from Howard Stark's kid. James has been doing his best to stay out from underfoot because what they don't want to show off to Howard Stark's kid - he keeps phrasing it that way, but Tony Stark is just about thirty years old, a bit older than James himself - is an incredibly traumatized Sentinel with one arm who enters a kind of dissociative fugue when he zones instead of shutting down all right and proper like a sentinel _should._ If not for Natka, James would have already left the Fort three times over the last year.

Hell, if not for Natka, James never would have come back to America at all.

 _'Which is fine,'_ James' unofficial keeper, Sam Wilson, often told him when he'd have an episode, _'she's looking out for you, that's what a passel does.'_

Sure, but that duty should fall to Steve, not an even more traumatized sixteen year old girl. Steve seems to more or less agree with James, only that tends to piss James off, weirdly. Natka shouldn't _have to_ look after James, but Steve makes it sound like Natka _can't_ look after James. Natka does an amazing job looking after James. She keeps him from killing anyone and doesn't have to beat him into the ground to keep him from leaving the Fort. Steve can't seem to get it through his thick skull that when James is zoning, just because he's moving around and talking doesn't mean he's _James._ James is going to come out of a zone and Steve's gonna be dead one of these days.

From the wary way Steve's pretty little Guide eyeballs James, _she_ at least knows that. James is infinitely relieved Steve has a babysitter that he actually seems to listen to these days, since James is no longer up to the task.

In any case, the Fort had gotten the news that Howard's kid would be coming by, and it had strung up tensions for the last two weeks. Reassurances that it wasn't a _bad_ thing or not, no one's happy when the brass come around, even though the Starks don't really qualify as 'brass.' James and Natka are going to make themselves as scarce as possible until the excitement dies down.

Instead, the day of the visit, the excitement ramps up to new and terrible levels. James has been hiding in the gym, certain that he'll hear the excitement and manage to ghost his way around the base while avoiding Stark and everything to do with the visit. He hears about it long before Steve finds him. His Guide isn't with him, but Ms Margaret Carter only accompanies Steve to half his visits to James.

"They loss contact with the helicopter Stark was on," Steve says.

"And there's evidence of a crash on satellite imaging," James interrupts. "I've heard." It's difficult not to. No one will hold the base accountable given that Stark was on the far side of halfway to them, but most of the base staff is or used to be military - when things go haywire, everyone wants to be the feet on the floor doing something.

Steve moves to spot him, which - James should have had a spotter to begin with when he decided to work off his tension. The prosthetic is good, but it does lock up if James tries to use it too much like a real arm. Weight lifting is the exact kind of movement that would lock it up - but Natka isn't far. He can hear the patient, slow beat of her heart. She would come and extract him from trouble.

"You think they'll send someone out?" Steve asks.

James grunts, allowing his pushing to slow to work his right arm harder. "Doubt it," he says. "Might be Stark's kid, and we're all reliant on his good will, but local enforcement can be on the scene faster. For the body or whatever."

Steve exhales, too careful and controlled for a sigh. "You think he's dead," he says in the same way.

"Well, Steve, when people fall out of the sky without parachutes, they tend to die," he says.

"Assuming no one escaped with a parachute."

"Assuming," James agrees.

It takes a few moments longer before James picks up on the fact that Steve is a lot more agitated about this than he should be, even given that someone is in trouble and he's not being allowed to go haring off after them. Everyone's heartbeats have been up, other than Natka's, and they smell like anxious sweat - not quite the noxious blend of true terror sweats. There are micro-trembles dancing over Steve's skin that James thinks Carter should be around for.

"What has you in a lather?" he asks.

Steve grimaces. "Stark's a Guide," he says.

"Howard?" James says, surprised - confused. He'd briefly met Howard before being permitted to bunk at the Fort. Howard had declared him stable enough for inclusion, but he'd definitely read like a mundane.

"The son. _Tony,_ " Steve corrects.

James locks his elbows, staring up at Steve. "Bullshit," he says.

Steve's smile is more of a grimace. "'Fraid not," he says, helping James move the weights back onto their stand. "I met the guy, once. Briefly. I already had Peggy by that time, but Stark's pull was a bit crazy." He looks uncomfortable, but that's never stopped either of them before; Steve's the only one that's heard the details of exactly how James escaped with Natka. "Still wanted to- …  a bit. Stark looked like he'd sucked a lemon."

"Choppers go down all the time," James says, although that's not entirely true, and it's difficult to believe that _Howard Stark,_ an incredibly pragmatic asshole who was such a control freak that he himself had to verify James and Natka, would have had in his ownership a helicopter in less than optimal working condition.

Steve looks just as unconvinced as James feels. "Maybe," he says. "We'll know when more news comes in." He obviously doesn't think they'll find a body.

At least Steve having met the younger Stark explains his attitude. Sentinels get stereotyped as overprotective brutes often enough, when about half of them - a portion James tends to group himself with - are just people with elevated senses. There are Sentinels that do get suckered in by Guides, though, and some Guides that can sucker even mundanes. If Baby Stark managed to pull Steve _after_ Steve was bonded well and good to Carter, that's - normal Guides don't do that. 

Between that and Steve actually having felt the Guide who is in distress or dead or whatever, they're lucky Steve hasn't actually left base. Carter's influence, James thinks, and is grateful for it.

"You got time to take a few rounds?" James asks, stretching his neck and eyeing Steve speculatively.

Steve bites his lip, his hands curling up into loose fists with tight fingers. "No," he decides. More likely out of consideration for the fact that James grounds himself on the painful pulling of the prosthetic on his shoulder than because Steve wouldn't benefit from the sparing. Two of James' first zones at the Fort occurred after sparring, when his whole body ached too much to properly ground himself. The subsequent beatdown from Steve hadn't exactly helped.

Fighting helps Steve. He's gotten into a lot fewer of them since Carter. James is relieved; if he had to involve himself in one of Steve's fights like he used to, before, someone would end up dead. It wouldn't be James or Steve.

Steve still doesn't get that.

It's probably better than he doesn't, which is why James keeps his damned mouth shut and makes sure to step on Natka's heels when she starts displaying the same signs. Natka hadn't had the same benefit of growing up in a civilized way before she was hollowed out and made into something _other._ Only because she is so desperate to be under her own control does she not slit his throat while he sleeps. She needs reminding that she doesn't need to kill for the slightest chance of survival anymore.

The anxiety of the impending visit from Stark headquarters itself has shifted to the familiar tension of being camped in enemy territory. James ends up raiding Steve's quarters to get his hands on the AnthosTech tablet while Steve's busy doing grounding exercises with Carter so he doesn't go AWOL. Natka follows him a second later and curls up on Steve's bunk next to him while he pulls up the news.

It has, of course, exploded. Tony Stark is the only thing anyone is talking about, given that he's high profile. Howard is a big name - his net worth is kind of ridiculous, and he still has a lot of old ties and alliances from decades ago when he used to make weapons. The kid of a man with that much influence would be high profile alone - but it's not like Tony Stark really needs that kind of weight. He's young and good looking and on the cutting edge of technology. He garners interest on that alone.

There's speculation and well wishes by the millions already, hoping to hear the safe return of Tony Stark. There are a lot of people asking when the SGC will be involved, and equal backlash from those saying: _impersonating a Sentinel or Guide is a serious crime, that's why they always said 'no comment' - come on, are you serious? Tony Stark? A Guide?_

"What do you think, Natka?" James murmurs, turning the screen more toward her.

"He is dead," Natka says plainly, heart beat even and slow, smelling warm but dry, "or they will not find him ever again."

It isn't LERNA's style, James thinks, but Natka is likely entirely right.

 

* * *

 


	2. Captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It would be a good idea to pick up the subjects, at least," James continues. "You need more skills in life than how to break a man's neck or open an artery with your thumbnail."
> 
> "Do I?" Natka inquires blandly.
> 
> "Kid," he says, "you won't ever be normal, but you'll like having more options when you're ready for them."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have you ever tried parenting a feral teenager because

It's light and it's awful and it's dark. It's dark and it's woozy and it's awful. It's sticky and it's dry and who is - who is - who is - what is who is -  _ me me me me i am -  _ it's light and it's throbbing and it's dark. 

Eventually, the world swims into some kind of reality. It's been throbbing this entire time. His leg. The funny thing about pain is that it comes through sleep and dreams, and so he has been feeling it for hours - days? It had gotten cold at some point and he lost himself because there'd been  _ too much _ . 

"Mr. Stark, sir," someone is saying to him. There are fingers pressed into his cheek. His head resounds with  _ i want, i want, i want, _ with  _ please be sweet for me. _ He feels like throwing up. "Mr. Stark. Are you okay?" 

He manages a noise. It sounds sick and weak. He's sticky, sweaty, gross, all over. His skin and hair and clothes and inside as well. Inside his head. Too much is pressing in on it. 

"It's okay, Mr. Stark. Tony. You're safe with me. With us. We'll keep you safe, okay?" 

No.  _ No, no, no, no, no. _

Eventually, the awfulness becomes manageable, when hunger and thirst both stab through him. He's in all sorts of pain - his body throbs, his leg in particular is in agony, and there's  _ too much _ pressing in on him - on himself. His self. He feels sick, rolls over and wretches, but only dryly. He scrabbles. Pills? But his jacket is missing. So is his shirt. It's just the thin, rippled cotton of his undershirt, and thin bile that he spits out. 

"Mr. Stark." 

He straightens. There's a pathetic excuse for a cot, set low to the ground so he won't even bruise if he tumbles out. His throbbing leg urges against it. Broken, he suspects. The room is dirty, in disrepair. No windows. One door. Three people. A fourth slightly distant, outside the room in the hallway. They all crackle with brittle tension that sticks little shards into his brain, that rattle him like a snare drum. 

One in particular is a drumstick, rap-tap-tapping. He rattles and rattles and rattles under the approach. This one is a Sentinel, a bit wild and at loose ends the way the unbonded ones always are, untidy and chaotic. "You must be thirsty, Mr. Stark," he says, and holds out a bottle of water. "Here." 

Tony gags on bile and something foul and oily. "I don't like being handed things," he rasps, falling back onto the cot. His head throbs and aches like his brain has been placed between clamps and then pulled tight and twisted. His clothing is soaked through with sweat, and so is the canvas under him, and the thin pillow below him. He takes a moment to be thankful he's not a Sentinel himself, but - 

The Sentinel inches closer. "It'll be okay, Mr. Stark," he says. "We'll keep you safe. Your were shot down, but we were able to retrieve you -"

"Davis," one of the others, a mundane, says warningly. 

Davis ignores him. "It's just gonna be a little wait until reinforcements arrive, okay?" 

Tony stares up at Davis. He looks young and stupid. Strong jaw. Inexperienced. His pupils are dilated. He reaches out towards Tony and Tony shrinks back without meaning to. Davis persists, stroking his head like a feverish child.  _ I want i want i want _ crashes like rubber bullets, leaving bone-deep bruises. 

"Davis, get your goddamned hands off Mr. Stark," the mundane says. His brittle edges spike. They don't quite impact Tony past the constant thundering of Davis's neediness. " _ Goddamn it, Davis! _ "

Davis twists and snarls back at him. His calloused hand is a hot brand on Tony's head and the press of his  _ self _ is angry and possessive and Tony's sweat sticky skin crawls. His toes and fingers curl tightly, but he feels sapped of strength, he can't even fight back. Hist stomach clenches and twists but nothing more can come up. 

"Stop," Tony rasps. "You're hurting me." 

The psychic backlash kind of sucks, but Tony's words do the job - Davis jerks back, taking most of his  _ self _ with him. Tony shudders, his teeth chattering from the shock. It's almost worse than having the Sentinel's impression rubbed all over Tony's brain, and he dry heaves and bites his tongue. The pills usually keep his senses dull and prevent the yawning hungry void in his brain from bothering him too much, but it's been hours - days? And it's gone through his system. Davis' psychic impression is loud and clear, like stepping out of an office and into a Bath & Body Works. It makes him want to vomit. 

Somewhat from abhorrence. Somewhat from being so hollow that he wants to gorge himself. 

"I told you not to fucking touch him, Davis," the mundane continues angrily. "Fucking Sentinels. Christ." 

Davis bares his teeth. "Fuck off, Malcolm. What the hell do you know?" 

Malcolm looks ex-military in stance and style - like Rhodey after a month of leave, just loose enough not to fall into parade rest, his jarhead hairstyle just a bit grown out like it's habit but no one has been keeping on top of cutting it short. He's older than Davis, maybe older than Tony; the dry, wrinkled skin around his sharp eyes like he's been squinting into snow for too long. 

"My people have onlined on the  _ frontline _ , asshole," Malcolm says with sharp precision, the words a rapid snap of automatic fire. "Step. The fuck. Away. From the Guide."

Tony lays carefully still, breathing only shallowly, watching the drama play out. He's rooting for Malcolm, despite the sharp, razored edge of yearning he feels. Davis would keep him safe, a voice as primal as fear whispers. Tony's rational mind recoils from the entire concept. He never wants to feel Davis' mind against his  _ ever again. _

Davis looks ready to fling himself at Malcolm. Malcolm is a mundane; he doesn't crouch or coil like a rabid animal. He sets his feet with his shoulders back and his jaw locked. If they get into an actual, violent fight, Tony is going to break both his legs trying to get away from them. Break his leg  _ again. _ Whatever. 

It's not that Tony's frightened of violence, it's just that every time someone gets into a fistfight within five meters of him, it seems like Tony manages to get punched in the face. Sooner or later he's going to take Rhodey and Happy up on their offers to teach him how to fight beyond a handful of escape measures. 

Davis finally folds like a newbie with a bad hand at a poker tournament. He casts a lingering gaze at Tony, but moves away until Malcolm stops glowering at him. He watches balefully as Malcolm moves to the table in the room where the other mundane is, ignoring them and playing solitaire with a deck of cards. There's a satchel on the table that Malcolm digs around in, and comes up with - granola bars. 

These he brings to Tony. He settles, three-point, at the side of the cot and busies himself with opening one of the bars and peeling the wrapper back a bit. "Here," he says, tone flat and impersonal, and sets the opened granola bar on the cardboard box pretending to be a nightstand at Tony's side. "You've been out for three days, Mr. Stark." He reaches down and picks up the bottle of water that Davis had offered earlier, and twists off the cap. It crinkles as the seal breaks. 

Tony scrubs his dry tongue against his teeth, trying to work up some saliva. It doesn't work. After a grudging moment, he reaches for the granola bar and the water bottle. Both Davis and Malcolm's imprints are on the bottle. It's a bit like wrapping his hand around broken glass, but it's not his skin that feels it. Tony clenches his jaw against it, hungry and thirsty and weak, his hands shaking. At least he can slip the bar free of the wrapper without picking up more impressions.

His kidnappers are American. They're willing to kill to get their hands on him, obviously, and while Tony's not especially well versed in the kind of injuries received from an aerial crash, he's pretty sure his leg wasn't broken in the landing - given how he has no bruises or injuries otherwise. A landing hard enough to snap his leg would have definitely given him more than just that. He can't be sure they're still in America, given that it's been three days, but he figures there's a good chance they are. Whatever you want to say about Howard Stark, he has pride, and he also doesn't like people touching his things without his permission. The moment they would have lost contact with the helicopter, Howard would have all available Stark Industries satellites focused on finding Tony. Three days is still soon enough that everyone would be on high alert; there'd be no gaps in the net to exploit yet. 

Also this whole thing about letting him put faces to names is not great. Davis' presence in particular is alarming. It's unlikely they plan to  _ kill him _ if they're letting a unbonded bond-susceptible Sentinel around him. Davis isn't great at listening to Tony, but given the way he's behaving, he'll sooner die than let anyone hurt him. Which means that this crew of idiots are trying to Stockholm him. 

Tony knows a lot of Stark Industries' secrets. Not only is he well versed in Howard's work, so that he can micromanage in darling Dad's place, but his own personal tech line, the Anthos line, is years ahead of everything else on the market. Tony had to design the satellites to establish a network capable of supporting his tech himself.  _ That _ had been expensive, but not impossible with Stark Industries behind him. 

Almost every time he's been kidnapped, it's been because of Howard's work, of course. Mom is so much better at not pissing people off. 

Tony only manages to eat half of the granola bar and drink a quarter of the water. Malcolm doesn't look pleased, but he doesn't push, either. If he's really been around the newly onlined, then he must know that all the additional bullshit that Sentinels and Guides experience only worsens if they aggravate the situation. 

"So," Tony says, glancing between Malcolm, Davis, and the so-far-nameless mundane at the table. "The helicopter got shot down, huh. Any ideas on what kind of enemy we're dealing with?" 

Malcolm's face is expressionless as he begins to speak.

-0-

James wrenches awake with a hoarse noise that sounds angry and animalistic even to him, alone in his own bunk. His senses spend seconds dialing wildly out of control, escaping the gentle confines of the room and bouncing to the next and the next, identifying in an instant the other Sentinels and Guides in the same wing with him. Steve jerking awake next door, disturbing Carter, is so sharp against his senses that James hallucinates for an instant that they're all in the same bed. 

James rucks his hand through his hair, steadying his breathing on the sound of Steve gradually relaxing. This is old hat - if one that he'd assumed they were all well past. The soft sheets grate against his hypersensitive skin, and he shuts his eyes and focuses on normalizing it again.

He hasn't exactly been sleeping well these last few days, dark uncertain memories that have been haunting him, but tonight was especially bad. He was back there with LERNA again - the dreams where he has two arms but one holds a handle to the ground and refuses to let go. He cuts, and he cuts, like he did in waking hours, but the knife is too dull and his fingers won't let go and he can't get away. 

Eventually, Steve says to Carter, "he's okay," and Carter uncoils to lay back down beside him. 

Back when they were deployed, a dream this bad would have had Steve barreling into his tent to more or less sit on him and talk about better times when they were kids. These days, any dream that doesn't have James zoned and speaking Russian - what the fort likes to call his 'feral' episodes - isn't a nightmare worth worrying about. 

His eyes prick with a wild, gnashing fury. He breathes through that, too. If someone comes in, he'll probably try breaking their arm. 

They should have anticipated this - or maybe Steve had. He hadn't sounded surprised in the least to be woken in the middle of the night by James' nightmare. It might have even been what set him off about this whole thing with Tony Stark having gone missing. James hadn't made the connection until Natka herself had said so. 

Since then, James has been just as obsessed with it as Steve was - and most of the Fort besides. It honestly has nothing to do with them. There is nothing the base could have done to a change what happened - but try explaining that to a base full of traumatized Sentinels and Guides.

Once his throat has loosened its vise grip and his eyes are dry again, James rolls out of bed. No one seems overly alarmed, about as accustomed to his nightmares as Steve and Carter. 

The base is never entirely silent; mundanes work most of the day shifts, and the rest of them too uneasy to sleep through the night patrol then. There's nothing to protect the base from - they're deep in the heartland of America, and a fair enough distance from civilian towns. James, in the grip of a zone, could easily make it to the nearest one, but he hasn't managed it yet thanks to the intervention of his passel. Despite their relative safely, most of them were in the military and the reassurance of a patrol is hard to shake. 

No one bothers or stops James on his stroll, padding through the base corridors almost silently. There's no such thing as true silence where it comes to traumatized Sentinels, but James gets closer than most. It's not strictly reassuring that no one bothers him - either they recognize the difference between him and when he's in a zone, or it doesn't even occur to them. He hates to think he's zoned enough that most of the base can tell the difference. He hates more to think it never occurs to them that they're in danger from a familiar face and they're approach him and he'll come out of the zone covered in blood again. 

The wing he now traverses is full of young, B-negative Sentinels; if James himself weren't so dangerous, this would have been the wing he'd be staying in. Instead, between Steve and the evaluation team, they'd thought it smart to place him where there would be Guides. Steve had been so worried about it that James hadn't had the heart to point out that he'll never rest easy with so many Guides nearby. 

His presence here in the Sentinel wing wakes several of the ones staying there, not always to full awareness, but most of them drop back off again; they know him. Natka meets him at her door, gives him an unimpressed once over, and allows him inside. The fact that Natka has mastered the nonverbal putdown of teenaged girls everywhere while still being one step above feral impresses James more than it should. She's a bit amazing at pretending civility. James is more civilized than her and yet he's the one they're all worried about. 

"How are you holding up?" he asks bluntly. 

Natka pads back to her bed. It's been shoved into the corner, and she curls up into it neatly, knees up and fingers looping around her ankles. "I haven't been by your room," she points out. 

Meaning that Natka wasn't able to tolerate being around Guides, even with her drive to remain as completely in control of everything about her life as she was. "I had noticed," James says. Natka is always careful about skin oils and she rarely sweats, but even so, James knows her scent so well he is always able to tell when she's been in a room recently. "Mind if I join you?"

Natka inclines her head with a shrug. 

James climbs up onto the bed, giving Natka a few inches of space as he crosses his legs and leans back against the wall. Being able to hear and see Natka helps him to ground on the base as his reality, no matter what fucked up messages his dreams are sending him. He'd been irrevocably changed against his own will, much as Natka had, but they are free now, more or less. As free as anyone could be from their own memories and experiences. 

Some days, that doesn't feel free at all. Some days, it feels like there's a chain bolted to that place that's equally bolted to what's left of his shoulder joint. He wonders what it feels like to Natka, who was in that place for a lot longer than he was. He wonders if the piney mountain air smells like half-frozen sludge and waste, if the warm, painted concrete walls sometimes look rough and cracked and blackened. Maybe chains rattle and there's screaming, snarling, breaking bones in her ears, instead of jokes and stories and laughter. Maybe the woven cloth on her shoulders feels more like iron and cracking, ruined leather. 

"How're your classes doing?" he asks. 

Natka unfolds from the corner, shifting over to curl into his side. She looks small and fragile, and even manages to fit under his arms and against his ribs that way. The slow, powerful beat of her heart and the corded muscles of her shoulders and thighs imply otherwise. "They can try," she says. "I will never be what they want me to be." She considers it for a moment, the peers up at him thoughtfully. "I would be able to pretend," she suggests carefully. 

James has seen her oscillate between frightened child, rabid Sentinel, and the feral teenager she actually is much too often to really be surprised by the suggestion. It had taken him some time to figure out she was pretending; he'd needed the reference points that other damaged Sentinels provided. No one abruptly rocketed from calm to tearful, screaming panic and back like flipping a switch. There was always a build up - a fast one, maybe, but always one. 

"I'd suggest against it," he says. "You wouldn't fool the Guides anyway. Might creep them out, though." Natka considers that for entirely too many moments, spurring James to say, "That's not really very nice. A few of them are here for a reason, just like we are." 

She hums, unimpressed. 

"It would be a good idea to pick up the subjects, at least," James continues. "You need more skills in life than how to break a man's neck or open an artery with your thumbnail." 

"Do I?" Natka inquires blandly. 

"Kid," he says, "you won't ever be normal, but you'll like having more options when you're ready for them." 

James and Steve had enlisted with the intention of going to college one day. Then they'd onlined, and then James had - and well. Steve is stable with a stable partnership with a Guide, and a healthy bond. He's ready for reintegration into civilian sectors whenever he feels like it. 

It's James, a one-in-one-million manifestation, with a fucked up zoning response and PTSD they still haven't figured out a trick for, that has very few options with what he's going to do with his life from now on. The way it's looking, once he gets a pass, he'll be stuck training Sentinels on the frontline until he gets shot in the head or finally shatters into pieces. 

Natka is young, and smart, and more than that: a survivor. It might take ten years before her trauma can be worked through, but there are still a million options for a twenty-six year old Sentinel with training and skills. As quickly as Natka had picked up English from James, who didn't know the first thing about how to teach someone to speak, even after having to pick up Russian in self defense - the world could be her oyster. If she just picked up the right fork. 

"Even if I learn these things," Natka says, "It would not change the person I am on the inside. I could pretend. I could smile, and laugh as they do. Use gentle touches. Willingly spend time with others. But I would not be doing these things because I want to." 

James doesn't know the right answer for this. He himself hadn't really had such a choice with Steve in the picture, and Steve bore massive scars as a result of how they'd handled - or hadn't - it. For all that he and Natka had been in the same place, experiencing similar things at the time, it wasn't really the same at all. 

"You could fake it until you make it," he says at last, which was what Sam Wilson had told him. It wasn't easy losing a bonded partner no matter which one was lost, but there was no demographic with higher suicide rates than bond-broken Guides. James is willing to allow that perhaps Wilson knows what he's talking about.   


"And how has that worked out for you?" she asks. 

James shrugs the arm he has slung around her. "Haven't killed anyone," he says, "but I've been pretending to be okay, not pretending to be someone I ain't." Carter had quickly put an end to Steve trying to pretend that James was still the Bucky who'd enlisted with him - the one with a joke and a smile no matter the situation. "Dunno how that would work for you, Natka. I don't even know if you should  _ try. _ Thinking about it probably is a good idea, though." 

"I do little else." 

"I know you do, sweetheart," he says, twisting his arm until he can stroke the side of her head. "Which is also how I know that when you're good and ready to do what you want to do, you'll have collected all the tools you'll need for it."

After a moment, Natka sighs and relaxes against his side. LERNA had done everything possible to make her an unthinking animal, to the point that James had assumed as much of her - up until he'd learned enough Russian that she'd declared him her escape route to his face. The one, single goal she'd had her entire life had been escape - with that accomplished and with so many option before her, it shouldn't be surprising that Natka feels at loose ends, uncertain where to start. 

James himself barely knows where to start, either, and he has less of an excuse. With the recurrence of his old nightmares, he realizes that he's been doing a lot better these last few months and simply hadn't noticed. He had kept putting off making plans or doing much of anything 'until he was better,' but it's looking like he's as stable as he's going to be. It's not as stable as he  _ wants _ to be. 

But if he keeps putting it off until he feels ready, James might keep putting it off forever. 

It's just as well he didn't bother putting his prosthetic on before coming to see Natka. He'd be tempted to ruck it through his hair and then hair would get caught in the joints again. He settles for slicking down Natka's long red hair with the hand he does have, kind and comforting. She won't tolerate it for long, but for few moments she might. 

The two of them had survived LERNA, and escaped; they can survive the aftermath.  

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terminology:   
> "b-negative" - doesn't react strongly to unbonded Guides. Davis is b+   
> "n-negative" - doesn't react strongly to Guides in distress. Steve is n+

**Author's Note:**

> I actually have quite a bit of this written and will be releasing what I have written regularly. Once I've posted what I have, this fic will likely go dormant until I finish _a broke machine_.


End file.
